Carrion Prowler Coat

Carrion Prowler Coat spreads across the rack like a midnight tide, its hide a quilt of whispered darkness and weathered grain. The leather bears the river-slick sheen of a creature that learned to survive by eating the air itself, stitched with bone-white sinew along every seam. Its edges are ragged in places, as if the coat learned to live with the marsh’s teeth, and a hood hangs heavy with a ragged fringe of coarse fur that smells of rain, mud, and old campfires. The inside is lined with warm wool, damp from countless nights spent under canvas, and a faint acrid tang lingers, the scent of scavenged knowledge and risk. When you hold it, you feel the texture shift between pliable and obstinate, as though the coat remembers every rainstorm it weathered, every path it kept secret. The lore is as thick as the fog that drifts over the marshes where prowlers hunt: this coat is said to be cut from the hide of a carrion prowler, a creature that moves through rot and rumor with equal ease. Some say it was sewn by a hunter who wore the beast’s shadow as a second skin, trading fear for warmth, mercy for speed. Others insist the coat carries the memory of those who vanished in the necropolis’s green dusk, stitching their whispered stories into the lining so the wearer would not forget the price of scavenging in a place where every drop of rain tastes like a confession. Whether truth or myth, the garment carries a presence—subtle, almost fragrant with damp earth—like a companion that has outlived many friends and many mistakes. In the world’s busy tempo, the coat is less a mere fashion choice and more a statement of survival. Explorers favor it for the way the thick hide evades the sting of briny air and rough brush, the way the heavy weave dampens footsteps enough to make a pursuer second-guess a match of shadows. Salvage crews wear it when they need to press through thorny briars and wet hollows without inviting the swamp to claim them as its own. For those who trade in stories as much as tools, the coat doubles as a badge of credibility; a worn patch on the shoulder might indicate a dozen expeditions, a dozen nights spent listening to the marsh’s rumor mill. It’s not only what the coat protects, but what it obliges its wearer to remember—the cost of chasing a rumor, the weight of a coat that has seen more rain than a person should endure, the responsibility of keeping a secret that everyone wants to hear. Its market life moves with the same stealth as its wearer. Saddlebag Exchange—the place where belts thrum with the clink of coins and the wheeze of old scales—keeps a living ledger on how much a Carrion Prowler Coat fetches these days. A vendor’s hand flicks toward a dusty tag, and the price—fluctuating with supply, demand, and the season’s spate of prowler sightings—is spoken in careful, practical breaths. Today’s bid skims the surface of a small fortune to a few well-placed trades, depending on dyes, wear, and the stories one carries inside the lining. A trader might swap the coat for salvaged hardware, rare hides, or a handful of gold, if the buyer speaks the language of risk with the same tongue the marsh uses to whisper warnings. Walking away, you feel as if the coat has already learned your footsteps, and you’ve learned yours. It’s more than cloth and leather; it’s a thread in the wider tapestry—an artifact that binds hunger, courage, and the quiet promise that, when the night swells, someone will still know how to wear the dark and come back with something new to tell.